


let the light in on the front porch

by rosevtea



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (for the second half), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Relationship, Russian translation available!, washio and atsumu are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25642387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosevtea/pseuds/rosevtea
Summary: Komori Motoya upholds his traditions and faces the evolution of connectivity. He learns to live with it.
Relationships: Komori Motoya/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 27
Kudos: 114





	let the light in on the front porch

**Author's Note:**

> **edit 1/06:** [russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/10273411) by eje! thank you so much!! I'm very honored :')
> 
> it is the 31st in my timezone so I'm technically only one day late, but I am still a clown. happy late komori day!! I just love him a lot.
> 
> title from [the heights](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvfwDwTRK9o) by far caspian. song has nothing to do with the fic, I just liked one of the lyrics. one of these days...the song will sync up to the fic
> 
> and ty for [v](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vwritesaus/) and [madin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madin456/pseuds/Madin456) for beta reading :)

There is a pre-match tradition Motoya holds in the palm of his hand. It’s not something he thinks twice about carrying around.

It’s not routine, either, despite what his team would say. Motoya isn’t particular on when he does it. If he’s on a roll with prying something out of Kiyoomi, he’ll leave it for after he changes into his uniform. He has never been picky about these things.

Sometimes, Kiyoomi will ask him what the point of it is if he doesn’t maintain a strict schedule. Motoya doesn’t quite know how to explain, so he tells him it’s a spiritual thing.

(“That sounds useless,” Kiyoomi says. “How can you trust that?”

The grin comes easily. “It’s not about trusting it. It’s my way of letting go of my responsibilities on the court. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“It sounds irresponsible,” Kiyoomi mutters. “If you start messing up your serve-receives—”

“Like I would ever!” Motoya snaps back. He laughs, too, because Kiyoomi grimaces.)

Kiyoomi keeps it well-hidden, but Motoya knows he takes out his carefully-folded handkerchief and tucks the rightmost corner in before games. He can understand why he was never told. Kiyoomi has never liked to blame or rely on fate, and he would insist that no matter what rituals they undertake, it won’t change the outcome. He says as much when he catches Motoya trail fingertips along another unfamiliar wall. Motoya waves a hand around and tells him to relax. Iizuna gets the same lecture whenever he lays a well-loved good luck charm from his mother on his towel.

Iizuna always laughs it off. “I know you think none of this matters,” he said once, “but it makes me feel better before I step out onto the court. I think that’s the real purpose of these things.”

“Oh.” Kiyoomi had looked like he reached enlightenment. It took everything in Motoya not to laugh. “I see.”

He had stopped asking afterwards, much to Motoya’s relief. Kiyoomi is his cousin, one he will always carve a space for, but Kiyoomi is also his cousin. He probably would have decked him if he had asked one more time, and no amount of offering to help with serve-receive practice would save him when Kiyoomi inevitably decides killing him will be worth the grime after all.

.

The tradition goes like this:

Motoya finds any relatively empty hallway. He places his hand against the wall and takes his time making his way from one end to another.

Everyone knows this. Kiyoomi has stopped giving him an odd look about it once they entered high school. Iizuna had accompanied him once, mistakenly thinking he got lost his first year. It was a fair assumption, so Motoya shooed him off with a smile.

What he tells no one, not even Kiyoomi, is what molds these things from actions to a tradition: he never closes his eyes. He stares at the loose formation of his fingertips as they drag along the wall. He takes in the sensation of rough stone against his skin and inhales quietly.

Connectivity is something he’s held close his entire life. Motoya measures it in angry red patches of skin at the end of practice and the harsh friction against the balls of his feet. He knows that others measure it in the steady repetition of wall drills well into the night. Still, others do so in confusing but earnest rhetoric. They take on vague forms, but he observes them all the same.

There is a certain empowerment that comes from willfully pressing against the boundaries of what separates him from safety and the court. When he turns the corner, he’ll face the responsibility of upholding the quietest, most impressive digs. He’ll let his smiles fade into pained scowls as he dives for the ball. Exhilaration will remain in every single part of him that lives and breathes and cries mercy at the tail end of a grueling match. These are all facts that he takes into himself when he rejoins his team.

He never lingers. Exhilaration does it for him and stretches impatiently if he takes too long. Before he leaves, he always aims a smile at a corner no one can see, just to say he left some piece of him behind.

(Sentimental, he knows. His parents caution against it. His mother always tells him a certain level of meticulous indulgence is fine. His father tells him to win. Motoya can fulfill both, so he makes sure his sincerity is in place before nodding to them.)

When he’s done, he washes his hands thoroughly (Kiyoomi’s request) and picks up a brochure on the way back (Iizuna’s request) and, if he’s feeling especially generous that day, splurges on Pocari Sweats (team’s pseudo-request). This part, he concedes, is a routine. The team always looks revitalized whenever he comes back with the extra drinks, so it never hurts to make the extra effort.

.

In Spring High of his second year, he is not alone in the hallway.

“Oh.” Suna Rintarou looks up from his phone. “Komori, right? Itachiyama’s libero. Hello.”

Motoya takes his hand away from the wall. “Yeah! Suna Rintarou, right? From Inarizaki?”

“So you’ve noticed.” Suna folds his hands together. “Thought you’d be here with Sakusa. You two are usually stuck together like glue, aren’t you?”

“He’s my cousin. We’re not attached at the hip.” Though they had been together most of the time at the All-Japan Youth Training camp, that was partly so Motoya could prevent a casualty. Unforeseen circumstances and Miya Atsumu are a bad chemical to add to an already-volatile Kiyoomi, and Atsumu has claimed to be a chemist on one of his more brazen days. “And I worry about him sometimes.”

It’s not a matter of whether Kiyoomi can take care of himself; he has been strengthening his own castles since the day Motoya knew of his existence. They are grand, lonely things, and Motoya always, in turn, resolves to build a homely cottage if he has the time. Rather, his worry extends to how Kiyoomi fits in with the team. It’s manageable right now, given everyone’s willingness to make space and Iizuna’s particular brand of warm honesty, but the future makes him pause.

(Not many things make him pause. Volleyball, or Kiyoomi’s devotion to it, has never been one of them, but he can’t help but think about it. Even still, it’s not hard to carry on through pure effort, so he throws himself into practice and hopes he can watch the pieces fall into place.)

Suna tracks the gesture. This is not unexpected.

“Sometimes?” His eyes are narrowed. Motoya has seen this look in his eyes before, when he receives a particularly nasty spike. “I guess that sucks. I have to deal with the Miya twins on a regular basis.”

Motoya snorts. “Yeah, between the most pessimistic guy ever and those two, I don’t know which one of us has it worse!”

“High praise for your cousin.” Suna looks over Motoya’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’d really appreciate that.”

Motoya knows what he’s doing. In the few times Kiyoomi purposefully messed with his head, he opted for this same trick. “Nice try. He never joins me when I go off on my own before matches.”

Suna clicks his tongue. “Damn. So much for unnerving you before our match.”

“We’re not facing you today.”

“Who said anything about today?”

“Hey, don’t just discredit the other team like that! You never know. There could always be an upset.”

“An upset? Kita-san alone could physically stop an upset. He’s terrifying enough to stop the earth if he wanted to.”

“High praise,” Motoya echoes. “Well, good luck to your team anyway!”

“We don’t need luck.” Suna gives him a sidelong look that isn’t dismissive enough to be believable. “And thank you in advance for giving me the freedom to aim where I want.”

Something slow slips into Motoya’s rib cages and takes root. The effect is shocking enough to draw a foreign instinct out of his throat before it melts into familiarity and he bursts into laughter.

“Oh,” he says between breaths, “are you still hung up on how I saved most of your spikes during Interhigh? I don’t blame you at all! You looked pretty annoyed by the third set.”

“Being annoyed is a natural reaction,” Suna points out. “You’d better watch yourself in our next match.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll make sure there’s nowhere safe to hit it.”

It’s strange to voice the subconscious challenge he’s always issued to everyone who’s ever stared him down behind the net, but it’s somewhat freeing. It forces a promise into existence, and Motoya takes his promises seriously.

Suna returns the gesture and grabs hold. “Right. Of course.”

.

The introductions are unnecessary. They had formally met at Interhigh on opposite ends of the court. The greetings had been brief: Suna had wanted to destroy the easy-going flow in Itachiyama; Motoya seeked to maintain it. In the end, Motoya had succeeded just a little more. He shook Suna’s hand and watched frustration breach the solid stoicism in his pinched eyebrows and the slight trembling in his lower lip.

What he told no one, not even Kiyoomi, is that he had been intrigued. Every other mystery in his life had been about quietly absorbing information from a distance (Kiyoomi, the ball, his position on the court, Iizuna’s life lessons). Suna’s had come up close. But Motoya was ultimately one to keep the peace, so he pretended he did not see Miya Atsumu start to cry and took his leave.

.

When Inarizaki loses their first match of Spring High, Motoya pretends he does not see the team collectively tearing up in the lobby and heads to the nearest hallway. He notices most things, but there are some moments he knows not to be privy to.

He runs his hands along the wall a second time and isn’t sure who it’s for. Kiyoomi would shove hand sanitizer in his direction if Motoya dared to dedicate it to him and Iizuna would clutch his good luck charm even closer and say he’s covered. Then go on to sincerely thank Motoya so many times, he thinks he might burst.

Something somber lives in the pads of his fingertips instead, which doesn’t throw him off as much as it should. Motoya knows he’s walking away with a victory. Kiyoomi would argue he should walk away with a vision for championships and would manage to make it sound like a natural progression, because Kiyoomi operates in seeing things to what he believes is their logical conclusion. But Motoya is not Kiyoomi.

It is tradition to leave some part of him behind, but resignation sits on the floor and waves an expectant hand at him when he reaches the end of the hallway. He knows it isn’t his. He knows the owner stands in the lobby, watching his teammates break down. The wilted promise sits nearby and, for the first time, Motoya wants to look back.

He stands at the end and presses his entire palm flat against the wall. A boundary to the court. A sturdy, overlooked connection. A barrier to an inevitable loss, if one wanted to be pessimistic. He does not look back.

.

When Iizuna limps away, arms slung around two teammates and hopes slung on the floor in front of them, Motoya cries. Kiyoomi does not. This is standard for both of them, has been hardwired in both of them. Even with a blurred vision, he can see the court clearly. He knows he no longer belongs here. The thought burns away exhilaration, and this, too, is normal.

What isn’t normal is the sudden curiosity of what someone else thought standing here, in different circumstances but the same outcome. A loss is a loss, he knows, but his existence has mainly revolved around how best to hone his presence on the court to mesh well with his teammates. He has no room for someone else, and now his brain insists that he absolutely has room for someone else. Connectivity is expressed in different ways, but Motoya has never factored in this specific way of coexistence before. It unsettles him.

He nearly runs into the doorframe on the way out and Kiyoomi frowns at him harder than usual before his usual scolding. Motoya knows he is aware enough to be concerned, which makes him feel better enough to wipe the last of his tears away and allow a watery grin to settle on his face. It’s the least he can do for now. While he knows he doesn’t have to be strong, Motoya feels better with some sort of weight on his shoulders regardless of the context.

.

He never does find Suna in a hallway his third year, but resignation stays with him like a stubborn pet, demanding more and more attention when it doesn’t get fed. It goes without food more often than not, considering Itachiyama under Kiyoomi’s captaincy does well for itself.

It’s all he could ask for. Motoya continues to carve a hole for the people around him until he recognizes the hole he fills for the team and dives into it with everything he has. He continues buying Pocari Sweats for everyone despite Kiyoomi’s insistence that he stop for the sake of his wallet (Kiyoomi still takes his share). The new voices have mixed in with the old by now, and the thought brings a smile to Motoya’s lips as he continues to shout encouragement. He’s greeted by other smiles. The cycle continues.

Stepping onto the court for his last high school match, Motoya’s stretching his legs when Suna materializes from behind the net. Motoya grins as he holds out his promise. Suna looks back impassively, but Motoya knows the exact moment he accepts.

.

Reintroductions become necessary in EJP Raijin. Washio Tatsuki, Fukurodani graduate, provides a responsible backbone to the lineup and a voice of reason to the inherent gossip channels that form when the fabled monster generation break into V.League at the same time. Komori Motoya, Itachiyama graduate, fills in the gaps as seamlessly as breathing and happens to have an extensive list of minor embarrassments committed by most of the monster generation on standby.

Suna Rintarou, Inarizaki graduate, continues to disgust middle blockers all over the country and tells Motoya his list of sins is terrifying. Suna Rintarou, Inarizaki graduate, has also added a smile to his repertoire of facial expressions in the years after their last match. Motoya is admittedly curious to learn what other expressions he’s picked up after dropping the stoicism. He assumes this is a normal thing for all of five minutes until the judgemental look Washio gives him when they take their water break snaps him back into the present.

The only difference about Suna’s form is that Motoya’s perspective has shifted. He watches his arm snap back from an angle promising safety before sending the ball careening far past Washio’s block and “Nice kill!” slips from his mouth with all the awe he had forgotten to erase (which he can live with, but he takes care not to repeat). Suna glances over his shoulder. The look he gives him is reminiscent of old competitions, but it reaches past that and tugs on connectivity. It does not unsettle him nearly as much this time.

When Motoya smiles, Suna smiles back, and it is yet another difference. Motoya has carved a hole into himself to manage the pre-existing differences in his life, but it is his job to take the weight of responsibility on his shoulders when he steps onto the court. He can afford to extend this courtesy to one more person.

.

Suna asks about the hallway tradition about two months after he joins the team. Motoya tells him it’s a spiritual thing.

“Give me a better excuse than that.” Suna raises himself up from the floor. “You looked like you had a reason when I caught you doing it in our second year. Or did you just drag your hand along the wall for no reason?”

Motoya deliberates as he falls into his next stretch. “Don’t you ever wanna just do things for fun sometimes?”

“So you drag your hand along the wall for fun,” Suna amends.

Motoya shakes his head. “I think it started out that way, but it’s not like that anymore.” Most things he’s done started out as mindless curiosity. Something about volleyball in particular had called out to every careless beat of his heart when he was younger. Something about running his hand against the wall reminds him that one person can impact the trajectory of the Earth. “That’s really scary if you think about it, huh? The strangest things can mean a lot if you’re not careful.”

The look Suna gives him digs under his skin. Another foreign instinct settles underneath his fingertips. “You sound like you’ve thought about this.”

“I have,” Motoya says easily. “It’s kinda hard not to. I do this before every game.”

Suna, having started first, eases out of his stretches. He grabs two water bottles and sets one to the side before uncapping the other in a fluid flick of his wrist. Motoya stares at the bright green bottle Kiyoomi had gotten him as a spiteful gift and watches the pieces fall into place.

“Interesting,” is all Suna says after he wipes his mouth. Motoya waits for him to leave. When Suna makes it clear he isn’t vacating the gym or the empty space intrigue has carved into limbs long-acquainted to doing what they love, he exhales slowly.

“Interesting?” Motoya repeats. “Maybe you should try it sometime. You can’t make fun of me then!”

“Who said I was going to do that?”

“Uh, everything about who you are as a person? You’re probably coming up with something right now.”

Suna rolls his eyes. “Even at your worst, Komori, you’re never going to be as bad as Atsumu.”

“What about Osamu?”

“He’s slightly better. I guess.”

Motoya has never found laughter hard to come by, but it’s even easier in this place, with this person. He opens his eyes after his last stretch and finds that Suna’s responding smile is becoming a given.

.

Before a match against the Deseo Hornets, Suna Rintarou walks next to him, his fingertips pressed against the opposite end of the wall. Resignation knows better than to demand justice at this moment. Motoya knows better than to push his luck.

“You never told me,” Suna begins, “why you do this. You just danced around the question. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I was wondering when you would,” Motoya admits. He grins at the astringent glare Suna shoots his fingertips. “Who says this isn’t a test?”

Suna looks ahead for a long moment. “You did.” He lets the silence hang further. “You sounded too serious.”

“And you rushed into this.”

“Komori.”

Motoya doesn’t have the proper words to explain that holding the vastness of the universe in his hands through an interchanging building helps set himself in perspective, so he takes to the way he expresses himself on the court: he uses actions. He stops walking.

Suna follows suit and turns to face him. It’s common knowledge that Suna’s expressions have been more open since high school, but the pure curiosity in the little slant of his lips is still a wonder to witness.

Motoya is trained to notice everything about his surroundings, but the catalog of subtle-to-unsubtle changes on Suna’s face probably shouldn’t exist so vividly in his head. There is no detachment when he thinks of these details, or the way Suna still narrows his eyes at a good dig, or the way his tongue gets looser when an ex-teammate faces him on the court. But then again, everything Motoya has seen as important has never even been touched by the threat of becoming detached: he calls Kiyoomi on a regular basis and both of them pretend Kiyoomi despises the calls. Iizuna meets up with him for bookstore runs in the off-season and Motoya begins to understand him a little more. His team insists on reviving the group chat every few months with a regrettable message (Kiyoomi blocked everyone for two days after one particularly bad image). Someone else is quickly slotting into a hole Motoya has only ever hollowed out for those closest to him, and so he decides to be brave.

Suna’s hand is warm and smooth against his (completely not the type of skin that would break upon meeting his pre-match tradition, Motoya scoffs) but resignation does not linger. Resignation is nowhere at all. The curiosity lives in his fingers and takes on another name off the court, and he takes a breath before he can back out.

“Connectivity,” he says before Suna can ask him what is happening, “is important to me. It’s what I live and breathe on the court, you know? The walls help remind me of all my responsibilities. It’s actually pretty humbling!”

“You’re talking too fast.” Suna has not pulled away. Suna has, in fact, laced their fingers together and Motoya does a terrible job at not noticing. “And that sounds overwhelming. I’m starting to think you need a weakness too.”

Motoya laughs. “I’m fine,” he tosses to the air. “I’m just fine.”

He never says that he’s fine without some element of honesty, but right now, he can fully say that he means all of the implications that come with it.

.

After the match, Suna presses this new version of coexistence against his palms. Motoya does not have to think twice about carrying this around as well.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! fun fact, this entire fic happened because I had a dream that there was a mini arc during nationals where suna and komori talked in a hallway. I really wanted interaction so bad, I manifested imaginary ones.
> 
> this was also my first time writing komori's pov so extra apologies on that but I will work on it! it was very scary
> 
> feel free to talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rosevtea)!


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